Quotes About Passersby

If we can wander, without fear, not only in the streets of Paris, which bristle with police, but especially in rustic walks where you rarely meet passersby, is it to the police that we owe this security? or rather to the absence of people who care to rob or murder us?

I walked alone through the twilit street. The wind was whirling, driving, carrying me like a slip of paper. Fragments of cast-iron sky flew and flew-they had another day, two days to hurtle through infinity… The unifs of passersby brushed against me, but I walked alone. I saw it clearly: everyone was saved, but there was no salvation for me. I did not want salvation …"(c)

Somebody flings a mattress out, — The children hurry by; They wonder if It died on that

Gradually he realized that he was really walking up University Place, self-conscious about his suitcase, developing a new tendency to glare straight ahead when he passed any one.

Spaced about ten feet apart on the first-floor ledge were leering gargoyles with chipped features that only added to their grotesqueness. They'd once been functional drains to divert rainwater from the entrance, but now a dark brown canopy served that purpose. The gargoyles didn't seem to mind; now they could concentrate full-time on leering at passersby too preoccupied to glance up and notice them.

The language was also shamelessly intimate and earthy: passersby were addressed as "honey" and children as "little shits." They dubbed local landmarks Gallows Branch or Cutthroat Gap or Shitbritches Creek (in North Carolina). In Lunenberg County, Virginia, they even named two local streams Tickle Cunt Branch and Fucking Creek.

Entre la gente que marcha por la calle van muchas parejas de enamorados. Se besan y acarician sin mirar a los que pasan, y casi sin que los que pasan los miren. Pero, sin embargo, todos tienen cierto aire de furtivo o pasajero encuentro, como si un azar favorable los hubiera reunido y pudiera separarlos en el mismo instante.

Happily chatting and counting pocket change, patting each other on the back and whistling foolish songs, we go out on the thousand-legged street and miraculously turn into passersby.

this day is not real. the crowing of the far-away carillons ring out direction less. even you are un real roasting under a man hattan sky while passersby flap their indecent tongues. even i am un real but i am black and thought to be without meaning. - on seeing Pacifist burn

The city was new again, and newly dangerous, and I would walk the streets quickly, eyes averted from those of passersby, like a spy in the employ of lust and happiness, carrying the secret deep within me but always on the tip of my tongue.

Out of all the neighborhoods in Manhattan, Soho in particular had the charged atmosphere of a movie set, populated with passersby who looked like extras from Central Casting, so perfectly did they fit into this environment. There was the feeling of everything being not quite real, or too perfectly cliched to actually be true, and it began to rain in a fine, misty drizzle from a black patent leather sky.

Outside, I avoided the gazes of passersby and slid gratefully into the cavernous interior of Godric's car. I didn't like to say This is yours? because wherever I placed the stress in that sentence, it sounded faintly insulting. It felt as if I were sitting inside a very pricey black leather handbag. Things glittered at me, and the bits that weren't leather or glittering were sort of dull black. It all smelled wildly expensive.

Just one of the people who walk past a corner of your life.

In Austin, outside the governor's mansion: a giant concrete cube with a crack running down the center, a crowbar by its side. Etched into the cube, four chiseled letters: P A C T. Etched into the crowbar: our missing hearts. One by one, passersby picked up the bar and hefted it, but no one dared swing, and when the police arrived they'd confiscated it as a dangerous weapon. The cube they loaded onto a flatbed and hauled away.

As I lounged in the Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at everyone who passed me, and wonder, with mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror.

The threat of Christmas hung in the air, visible already in the fretful look of passersby as they readied themselves for the meaningless but necessary rites of false joviality and ill-considered gifts.

Some spray-painted graffiti on the wall asks, Is it nothing to you all who pass by? Lamentations 1:12 and I think, No, Lord, whoever the hell You are, this is not nothing to me. This counts.

May none who pass by say to them, “The blessing of the LORD be on you; we bless you in the name of the LORD.”

They have made their land a desolation, a perpetual object of scorn; all who pass by will be appalled and shake their heads.

I will make this city a desolation and an object of scorn. All who pass by will be appalled and will scoff at all her wounds.

“Edom will become an object of horror. All who pass by will be appalled and will scoff at all her wounds.

I will make you a ruin and a disgrace among the nations around you, in the sight of all who pass by.